Supernatural Oneshots
by miss-olivia-winchester
Summary: Just a few random one-shots from pre-series, early series, up-to-date episodes, and everything in between. Some fluff, but also some emotional s**t.
1. Museum

Sam's first visit to a museum was in '93, and even though it was technically for a case his dad was working, he thought it was the best birthday present ever. The enormous room stretched out before him, offering seemingly endless possibilities of exploration; each corner held shining pieces of history.

Dean, of course, was bored out of his mind, but he was bearing it for his little brother. "Double digits, huh?" he'd already said several times that day, playfully elbowing his younger brother with a smirk and a proud light in his eyes. Dean was already 14, and though most ninth-graders were taking classes to prepare for their futures, he had already taken down a vampire nest single-handedly.

John didn't usually let the boys tag along, not even menial little haunting like the one at the Minneapolis History Center where they were standing. But Mr. Winchester had an awfully good feeling, and was in a surprisingly amiable mood that day (for him, anyway).

And so, while John questioned the curator, the brothers gallivanted from exhibit to exhibit, exploring medieval armor to ancient pottery. Sam especially marveled at each piece, reading every plaque and memorizing certain facts. Dean would look over every once in a while, getting an appreciative glimpse of the wonder on his little brother's face.


	2. Pie

"Did you bring me back anything?" Sam asked, looking expectedly at Dean's empty hands.

"Err…that's a no, sorry."

Sam frowned, almost pouting.

"I was gonna leave you some pie, but I ended up eating it on the drive."

"What?" Sam cried, exasperated. "The minibar here sucks."

"Hey, not my fault. Besides, last time I asked you for pie, you did not deliver."

"I was kidnapped by a demon!"

Dean clicked his tongue and shook his head, chiding jokingly, "No excuses, Sammy."


	3. Paint

The first painting Dean made got him sent to the principal's office. The first painting Sam made won him an award and made his entire class crowd around it. It was Sam's idea to go to the dollar store and get the cheapest acrylic paints one could buy, and show Dean how to create art that didn't make assistant principals faint. Sure, Dean grumbled, and asked what the hell kind of a name 'chartreuse' was for a color, but once Sam sat him down in front of a tree by the motel parking lot and handed him a 50 cent brush, he began to peer at the subject of his art. Slowly dipping the bristles into a blotch of slimy brown paint, Dean began to sketch out the long, outstretched tree limbs.

"You've got talent, I know it," Sam had said, and Dean glanced over at the eight year-old's hopeful smile, encouraging him to continue. The twelve year-old's brush strokes were surprisingly graceful, and Sam 'ooh'ed and 'aah'ed throughout the whole process. A few times Dean got impatient and almost ruined the painting with angry strokes, but Sam stopped him every time. And at the end, as the sun was setting and casting fantastic shadows, the brothers gazed at the most beautiful painting Sam swore he'd ever seen.

"You think so?" Dean breathed, green paint on his callousing hands and a bright look of appreciation in his eyes. Sam nodded then, looking more serious than an eight year-old should ever look.

He blinked at his older brother and told him gravely, "Dean, promise me you won't ever think you're bad at something. Okay?" And though he believed it at the time, Dean Winchester had no idea that his 'okay' would be meaningless for a long time.


	4. College

As Sam has gotten older, he's changed far more than Dean did at his age. His cheekbones sharpen and his voice deepens, his hair growing rapidly and his height increasing exponentially. His eyes narrow more and he seems to be scanning everything, his lips pursed and gaze sharp like a hawk's. He laughs less and argues more, and only relaxes his tense, ever-growing muscles when it's the dead of night and no one's eyes are on him. The nickname 'Sammy' is used sparsely now, and though Sam still loves his brother with an unbearable familial ache, he grows more and more wary around their father. John Winchester is well into his forties now, tiring more easily than he used to, and Sam seems to forget the times where he called him Daddy and trusted him with his whole heart.

One night, as Dean sauntered into their motel room, still in a jovial mood from his latest bar jaunt, he noticed his little brother, leafing through informational college brochures with an uncertainty pushing his eyebrows downward and pulling his lips into a frown. "How's it going, Sammy?"

"Sam," the younger corrected on instinct, though it was under his breath and hardly audible. After a small sigh, he shifted in his seat and set his eyes on Dean hesitantly.

"Dean...," he trailed off, finding it hard to pick the right words. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling through his nostrils noisily and exhaling the same. "What would Dad say if I told him I might want to go to college?"

"He'd be pissed, that's what," Dean answered almost immediately. His tone was belligerent; it sounded as if he was on John's side, when in fact it was quite the opposite. Why the hell, he thought, does Sam keep trying Dad like this? Is he desperate to get yelled at? Dean just did not understand.

Sam bit the inside of his cheek softly and looked down, knowing Dean was right. Their dad would be pissed, probably a little more than that since college meant Sam leaving John's ever-watchful eye. "But say...say I talk to him a bit. What if he listens? What if he lets me go?" He's aware of how much the phrase 'lets me go' sounds frighteningly similar to a prisoner being released—and how much he knows it's all too alike.

After a long night of drinks and girls, Dean finds all the prestige of normalcy, of happiness, slowly drain away as he sighs long and hard, "Look, kid-"

"I'm not a kid," Sam snaps savagely, and his brother blinks at him in surprise.

"Yeah," he continues softly, almost as if not to scare a wild animal, "I'm just trying to say, Sam...this can be a hard life, but man, with what's out there...who knows how long we'd last alone, without contact or weapons or-"

"I'm not saying we'd be out of contact!" Sam cries, showing a glimpse of desperation and petulancy. Forcibly slowing his breathing and calming himself, he went on. "But you and I both know it, Dean, I can't live like this much longer. I just wasn't made for this stuff like you and Dad seem to be. I...I go on a hunt with you guys, and I know, every time, that there's a chance one of us could die out there. And that...that is no way to live." Colors were dull at that moment, and the brothers' lungs seemed papery and thin. Sam shuffled the pamphlets into a messy pile and went to bed early, knowing that, until he spoke up, everything would seem silent. Even the crickets seemed muted in their songs as Dean laid down that night and began to sleep, but slumber only granted him more nightmares.


End file.
